top of page
  • Writer's pictureJohn Ryan Hrebik
    • 1 min read

Uninvited Guest

I will stay up one last hour

surrounded by the hiss of dark,

and wait for you to come.


The stiff ground will crackle

with the sounds of twigs snapping

beneath the bulk of your boots.


Your fist will pound,

beating the flesh of my door

unwilling to be ignored.


I will take your coat,

offer no drink and listen

to your echo slapping

the walls of my home.


And when you are through

shaking the bones of your finger

in my stoned face,


“Thank you,” I’ll say, “our supper is through,”

point you to the door,

turn my back like before


and wait for you to come.


Related Posts

See All

An honest mess- A rain cloud affair; Nothing more than clothes in the corner piled high on the chair, Your mouth says a name- doesn’t seem to know mine. Who knows if you’ll ever say what you mean? Mes

What if spilled ink Was nothing more than Dense words compacted On your muddled page? Not a mess to mop up, But a message to sort out. What sort of message Would we find in the Deep recesses of our pe

The ephemeral glow of the sun, rising above the ocean. Light rays reach out, like the hands of a god offering eternal tranquility. Gossamer glaze covering photographs that never do justice to reality.

bottom of page